


Dedicated to You

by nothandlingit



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: F/M, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-22
Updated: 2015-10-22
Packaged: 2018-04-27 15:42:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,883
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5054458
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nothandlingit/pseuds/nothandlingit
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>I am an author and you are at my booksigning but why are you handing me these scrap papers to sign? Wait - is that the first story I ever wrote and trashed because some people at high school made fun of me by reading it out loud? And now you're here, not to tease me, but because you liked my writing even back then? Captain Swan AU</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dedicated to You

**Author's Note:**

  * For [swishandflickwit](https://archiveofourown.org/users/swishandflickwit/gifts).



> So a little while ago I was in a bit of a writing rut and received a few lovely prompts from the one and only swishandflickwit. Today I FINALLY finished this little AU! Hope you enjoy it and thank you so much for all your support and kind words. I don’t say it enough but I truly appreciate it!

The echoes of everyone’s laughter is still ringing in his ears when he leaves the classroom, throwing the scraps of paper in the bin on the way out and trying to forget the embarrassment of having his writing read out in jest. A hand to his shoulder stops him before he can step out the door though, “Killian, don’t listen to them.”

He turns around to see Emma Swan, appreciative of a friendly face but wishing that she’d just let him get out of the room without any hassle, “I’m fine.”

She tilts her head, doing that thing where she seems to see right through him. And he’s pretty sure she actually can. But she doesn’t push it, instead bending down and deliberately picking up the pieces of paper Killian has just discarded. Keeping eye contact with him, she gently folds them and tucks them in her pocket.

Shrugging, she smiles at him, “They’re important.”

Without another word, she simply makes her way out of the classroom ahead of him.

…

He thinks about Emma from time to time, wonders where she is, what she’s up to, if she ever read the rest of those pages. He’d known she was an orphan – they had spoken about it once while they were both waiting for the bus – but never thought she would be moved away from their school so suddenly. Theirs was a tentative friendship, born out of a unique common ground and he had immediately missed her presence in his day.

She was the driving force behind his ambition though, the voice in the back of his head telling him that, while he may be a struggling writer in a far too expensive city, what he was doing was important. He wishes he could have thanked her for that.

He closes his laptop, fingers pressing at his temples. The final draft of his latest novel has been keeping him up late every night with all the strict deadlines his publisher has given him and he knows he should really go to sleep, but thoughts keep swirling in his head about how busy he’s going to be for the next few weeks. They’ve got him touring the country for a series of book signings to build excitement for the next instalment in his series and, while he thinks it’s a great opportunity to get amongst his fans, he knows it’s going to limit the time he has to go through his work with a fine toothed comb the way he’s used to doing.

He sighs and reopens his laptop, trying to focus on the screen and get this draft done and sent to Belle, his editor. There’s no denying that the heroine of his story matches the description of what he assumes Emma would look like now and he finds his mind wandering towards her again as his eyes lose track of the sentences he’s reading, her voice in the back of his head telling him that this is important, but so is his health.

Shaking his head, he glances at the clock and sees it’s just after 2am. He has to be up in four hours, so he really does need to get this done. He flicks through the pages, knowing the vast majority of his writing is something that he’s happy with and that Belle will send back any edits he needs to make. Scrolling back to the beginning, he thinks for a moment before deleting the words he has written on that title page and typing out a dedication to his brother, as he has in all his books, and then saving and sending it to Belle’s office.

Even though it’s only one step in the long process of publishing his next novel, he feels a weight lift off his shoulders and can feel his eyes sliding shut the second it’s out of his hands.

…

Emma sighs as she kicks off her high heels and thumbs her way through the mail that was waiting for her upon her arrival home. She flings herself down onto the couch, not caring that she’s still dressed up from her date come bail skipper chase, just grateful to be off her feet.

She’s about to throw the mail all to the side and see what can get her mind off another bad day on Netflix when she sees a familiar face in the pile of flyers amongst the bills. Her interest piqued, she pulls the flyer from the mix, smiling at the familiar warm blue eyes looking up at her.

It’s been a long time since she’s seen him, but she’s followed his success online and made sure to purchase his books diligently on the day they are released. She would know that man anywhere. And, apparently, Killian Jones is to be attending a book signing next week to promote the next book in his _Pirates’ Legacy_ series. Her thumbnail finds its way between her teeth as she contemplates going, knowing in the back of her mind that she’s already deciding which book to take with her to have signed.

She’d often wondered if there could have been anything between them if she hadn’t have been torn from yet another family and put back into the group home. She’d thought about life with Killian Jones and if he’d ever write stories about her. It makes her feel like a nervous teen again to even contemplate it. But then something stirs at the back of her memories and she wonders if she still has them, those little scraps of paper he’d written on so long ago.

Suddenly not as tired as she had been a few minutes ago, she walks to the little storage cupboard in the hallway by her room, doors opened wide and hands buried in the back of the top shelf as if guided by a vague recollection of where she could have put them.

Her fingertips touch a small wooden box and she knows she’s hit the jackpot, pulling the box from its confines and sitting on the floor right there to open it. She smiles at the memories from her youth, her mind made up at 18 to only hold onto the good things and forget all the pain and hurt that had come with her life. There’s a ring she’d forgotten existed, her old glasses and a few photos. But beneath it all, there are a few ripped and yellowed pages from a notebook and Emma feels her heart racing as she opens them, having not read them in years.

The pen has faded, the words hard to make out, but she’s surprised to find that she can still remember the detailed story as well as when she had read it every day for comfort as a teenager. It may have been subtle, but Killian had been a good friend to her. More than that, he’d been a good person, someone who she could count on, and she misses him all over again.

Mind made up, she keeps the pages of the story out with the flyer typing the date and time in her phone and setting a reminder. It’s about time she caught up with her old friend.

…

He takes a sip from his water bottle without looking up, holding up a finger to gesture that he’ll just be one moment. A woman’s voice reaches him saying that it’s okay, before she places a few sheets of paper in front of him.

He frowns, looking down at the yellowed pages curiously before he quite suddenly realises what’s been put before him. His eyes shoot up and he half splutters, half spits the water out in shock. Trying to gather himself, he springs to his feet, “I am _so_ sorry!” he says in a rush, “It’s really you, isn’t it?”

Emma laughs, not even caring that her jeans have water all over them because, in an instant, she’s been transported back to the bus stop in grade nine when she and Killian had talked about their lives like old souls and made silent promises to always be there for one another. He’s looking at her like he always has and she’s sure her cheeks are probably pink under his gaze as they always have been too.

“Yeah, I uh,” she shrugs, “I saw you were in town.”

He’s somewhat composed himself now, but finds that he’s at a loss for words anyway, instead reaching across the signing table and pulling Emma into a hug that she doesn’t expect at all. Despite the general rumble through the rest of the line that indicates the crowd is less than pleased with all the time Emma is taking up, she finds herself sinking into his comforting hold, finally getting that moment they’d both been denied in school.

“It’s been so long,” he says finally, pulling back and taking a look at the pieces of paper between them, “I can’t believe you kept these.”

She waves a hand as though it was nothing, “I told you, they’re important.”

He’s picked up one of the sheets and started reading, an odd expression on his face as though he doesn’t recognise the words. She leaves him be for a moment, enjoying watching his eyes dart across the page. After a minute he looks up again, seemingly realising that he does, in fact, still have a room full of people waiting for him.

“Can I have these?” he asks, gesturing to the paper on the table.

She’s taken aback by that at first, frowning because she’d always thought them _hers_ and it’s going to be weird not having them in her possession. But he is the author, so who is she to claim his words? “Uh, yeah…of course.”

He seems to realise his mistake and shakes his head, “Oh, I only mean for the afternoon. Meet me this evening?”

She tilts her head to this side, making him sweat it out for a moment before nodding slowly, “Yeah. Yeah you will.”

He quickly scribbles down an address and hands it to her, facing the rest of the line of fans before him with a new energy, “Who was next?”

…

She’s changed her outfit three times and then berated herself twice as much for doing so. This was no big deal, just a well overdue catch up. At least, that’s what she keeps telling herself as she makes sure her eyeliner isn’t smudged and gives herself a final once over in the mirror.

Taking a deep breath she leaves her apartment and makes her way to her car, putting the address Killian gave her into her GPS and following it diligently. Having been so busy changing her clothes, she hadn’t had a chance to Google the address to see where Killian was taking her so she’s a little surprised when she pulls up out the front of an unassuming apartment building and realises he’s invited her to his home. It sets off another slight panic in her chest, heart racing and palms sweating, at the thought of going somewhere so intimate, but then she remembers how he was at school, how he was always shy and reserved and didn’t like being the centre of attention and it makes sense for him to have chosen somewhere private.

She’d be lying if she said she hadn’t followed his career and she’s seen the way his fans are with him. Especially those with eyes for rugged-looking-blue-eyed Englishmen. She kind of likes that she won’t have to share him tonight.

He’s at the door before she can knock, her mouth dropping open in surprise as he swiftly pulls her inside. “What the…?”

The rest of her question is cut off by his hand over her mouth and she’s just starting to think perhaps she severely misread his request to see her again when he starts whispering urgently to her, “I am so sorry, Emma. I’ve brought you into something so dangerous, something so forbidden. I never wanted to hurt you.”

She squints at him ready to reach up with her free arm and punch him when his words suddenly sink in and she recognises their familiarity. Smiling in relief behind his hand, she cheekily pokes her tongue out, licking his palm. He immediately breaks character, pulling his hand away and wiping it on his jeans, “Ugh, Swan!”

She laughs, pushing him away from her and kicking off her shoes, making herself at home as she steps into his apartment, “Is that why you wanted the pages I brought? So you could re-enact scenes from your first book?” If it had been anyone but him, she’d already be out the door. But there’s always been something about Killian Jones that keeps her wanting more.

He shrugs shyly before pulling out a chair for Emma and making his way to the fridge, “I’d call it a dramatic reading. Drink?”

She nods at the ease with which they’re able to slip back into their old friendship, “Sure.” Then, feeling a bit cheeky herself, she continues with, “Oh, and play your cards right, Jones, and you might get to _dramatically read_ from a different part of the story.”

He knows very well which part of the book she’s referencing. There were only so many scenes on those few pages and, though he’d only been 14, he knew a romantic plotline along with the action wouldn’t hurt. He uses the pretence of fixing them both a drink to hide the blush in his cheeks, but Emma still notices, happy that he’s still the same Killian she knew in school.

He eventually admits that he’d only been home half an hour before she had arrived and hasn’t cooked anything for their dinner which is how,  ten minutes later, they’re passing pots and pans and ingredients around the kitchen together like they’re out of some domestic scene. Emma hands Killian the pasta as he checks the sauce and gives her a taste. She smiles and nods her approval and it just feels _right,_ as though they never missed out on over a decade of each other’s lives.

Conversation is easy through dinner, picking up right where they left off and catching each other up on everything in between. He writes about pirates and she chases criminals down for a living and it’s exactly what they wanted out of life, while still being different enough to keep them guessing.

“Do you keep in touch with anyone from school?” she asks him when they’ve finished their pasta and are piling the dishes into the washer.

He shrugs and says, “Not really,” in a pretty nonchalant way, but Emma can see the way his head ducks as he answers. She knows they’d been _something_ back then, known they were each other’s person. She just didn’t realise how much it had meant to him.

She puts down the plate she’s holding, stepping up to his side and placing a tentative hand on his shoulder. The look he gives her is apologetic as well as lust filled and she has no idea what to do with that because those blue eyes were always her downfall and she’s starting to see that, perhaps, she was his downfall too.

“I’m sorry,” she whispers. Up close, all she can see is that scared teenager with fear in his eyes that he’ll never be good enough. How wrong he is, “I’m sorry I couldn’t be there for you.”

He reaches a hand out to cup her cheek, her skin tingling under the warmth, her breath hitching as he exhales in a comfortable sigh, “Darling, you’ve _always_ been there for me.”

His forehead rests against hers and she thinks he might kiss her, but that wouldn’t be the Killian she knows. No, he needs to be sure it’s what she wants, so he pulls back a fraction, slips his hand down her arm to tangle their fingers together and asks her, “Can I show you something?”

She nods before her mind catches up with her body, following his soft footsteps out of the kitchen and down into the hall. She wonders briefly which room is his, before he leads her into what looks like an office space turned library. Countless editions of his books sit upon the shelves, bent pages and red lines drawn through them in haste and error.

“What’s this?” she asks, taking the lead and running her free hand along the spines of a few of the books, feeling his hard work in each stroke.

He steps up behind her, hand joining hers above one of the titles. She finds it hard to concentrate on much else with his breath at her neck but, together, they manage to pull the book from the shelf.

“This is my first edition room. This is where all the rough drafts and first copies live.” His voice is like molten gold, warming her in the most delicious way. All she can think about is his kissing him, but she can see that this is important, so she tries to focus, to watch the way he flips a page and not think about that same hand running up her ribs and down her thighs…

“Read it,” he requests, shaky and unsure.

She’s not sure she trusts her voice above a whisper right now, “For Emma, my muse.”

He nods, “Mmhmm.” Picking another book from the shelf, he opens it to the dedication page as well.

Her name stares back at her again, “For Emma. Because _she_ is important.”

“For Emma, the voice in my head telling me to do better.”

“For Emma, my dear friend.”

She turns around in his loose embrace, searching his eyes, “But your dedications are always to Liam.”

He nods, “Because I was afraid.” Taking her hands in his again, he squeezes them gently, “I didn’t want you to think I was some crazed stalker. Worse, I didn’t want you to ever think there was another Emma in my life. We only knew each other a few short years but you stuck with me, Swan.”

She knows the feeling well. A lot of her life has been shrouded in abandonment and pain, and she’d never allowed herself to get close to people. Except him. He’s been that one proud moment in her life where she feels like she’s made the right decisions.

They’re so close; she’d only have to lift up on her toes to bring their lips together and, _god_ , she wants to. “Killian?”

“Hmm?” he hums, seemingly shaking himself from the same spell she’s found herself under.

She bites her lip and flicks her eyes up to meet his once more, “I think I’m ready for that dramatic reading now.”

She wonders at his restraint when his hand loosens from hers and trails back up her arm, sending shocks of electricity through her body and warming her core. His fingertips trace delicately across the skin of her neck before tangling in the hair at the back of her head, his breath coming in short pants against her parted lips.

She’d like to say she doesn’t whimper at the intimate contact. But she can’t.

That smile she’d dreamt about for years flickers across his face, the one so boyish but so _knowing –_ as though he could recite all her secrets back to her.

She’s on the verge of just grabbing his collar and crushing him to her when his lips gently brush hers. Once, twice, thrice and they catch, holding tight to their fragile little moment. The hand still twisted in her hair angles her head and his tongue reaches out to taste her and it’s like a switch flicks and she’s _hungry._

Rocking her hips into his, she encourages the hand on her waist to pull her closer. He obliges, slipping his palm down the curve of her hip and under her thigh to lift her enough that she can perch herself on the edge of his desk.

His lips are everywhere, his scruff scratching at the sensitive skin below her ears as his tongue darts out to taste and to soothe. She feels her back arching under his touch, just wanting to feel him everywhere at once.

“Emma,” he breathes into her neck, sending shivers down her spine, settling nicely at the apex of her thighs. “Gods, you need to tell me to stop.”

But she doesn’t want him to. She’s been cautious her whole life, keeping her walls firmly in place rather than letting anybody have the power to hurt her. And it’s worked for her. But there’s something in the way Killian looks at her that tells her how precious this thing between them is. Maybe they only knew each other when they were young; it doesn’t matter. She knows him now. She wants him now. And tomorrow and forever.

And it doesn’t terrify her.

“Don’t stop,” she breathes, wrapping her legs around his waist and pulling herself onto his hips. The groan that escapes him should be illegal, “Please, don’t stop.”

Capturing her lips again, he turns them around, walking them back down the hall towards his bedroom.

Time speeds up and slows down all at once and she’s on her back with his naked hips pressing her into the mattress as she arches into the hand on her breast, thumb flicking over her nipple as her fingers find the hard and solid length of him, and it’s so much. It’s too much and not enough and-

“Oh,” she moans, the tip of him nudging against her clit, her hips bucking up to gain some more of that much needed friction.

Her only consolation is that he seems to be as lost as she is, teeth nipping at her collarbone, mouthing words of beauty and trust into her dampened skin. The air is charged around them, electric and warm and, as his mouth moves in a trail down her body, she feels her desire coil the pit of her stomach and tighten in anticipation.

It’ll be a long time before she admits it, if she ever does, but his tongue on her had plagued her dreams for a very long time. In between non-comital relationships and one night stands, he has been her constant fantasy. That he writes his characters as they look has never helped either.

The reality definitely outshines her fantasies though, his tongue practically dancing on her in the most intimate way. She’s not prepared for her climax as it hits, crying out at the feel of his lips around her bundle of nerves as his tongue laps at her, but she rolls with it, slowly coming back to reality and only wanting him more. Somewhere, over the dull roar of blood pumping through her veins, she hears a foil packet ripping open and she’s glad that he’s got that covered because she is definitely not in the frame of mind for responsibility.

And then he’s gathering her in his arms, kissing her sweetly and pushing into her slowly. She whimpers again and he smiles above her, “Fuck I love the sounds you make.”

An answering smile spreads across her face too because she’s never really been vocal in bed, preferring to get to the good stuff and not linger on it. But this, _oh this,_ she wants to linger on.

He waits a moment, let’s her adjust her hips to accommodate his girth, and then slowly rocks out of her in a gentle thrust. One of her hands clutches at his shoulder, the other at his ass, as he slides in and out. In and out. The pull of his cock on her inner walls bringing her desire to life all over again, pleasure burning its way up her spine and right down to her toes.

“Faster,” she urges, wanting to see him come undone as she has for him.

He heeds her request, hips snapping forwards and pushing her up the bed until there are no more pillows and she decides to take charge. Locking one leg over his hip, she pushes up with the other until he gets the idea and helps them roll over. Gripping her thighs, he anchors her above him as his hips piston upwards, delighting in being able to watch himself disappear inside over her again and again. Hands now free, she reaches for her clit with one, the other finding his fingers on her thigh and holding tight to them, grounding herself before she simply floats away.

“You look so good up there,” he murmurs, flashing a grin up at her.

She meets his gaze, biting her lip as he hits a spot deep inside of her that has her almost breathless, “Not so bad yourself,” she manages to get out before she crashes over the edge, falling forwards on his chest and feeling him still inside of her as he follows in bliss, breathless cries falling from their lips.

There’s a long moment after when she doesn’t want to move, but he has to slide out of her and discard the condom. She rolls over when he returns with a glass of water and a washcloth, the feel of him cleaning her up somehow so much more intimate than what they have just done.

She tries not to dwell on that too long, afraid that, if she does, she’ll end up scaring herself. And she so does not want to be afraid of this thing between them.

It’s a weird feeling for her, falling asleep with her head on someone’s chest, falling asleep with a kiss to her temple and a hand on her waist, falling asleep with trust and something she’s not quite ready to name in her heart.

It’s only been one night but, somehow, it’s been so many more. And she was tired of running anyway.

…

She’s there at precisely 9am. He’d told her she could have an advanced copy of the novel, but she’s a creature of habit and being at the bookshop on the day of release for any one of his books is something she needs to do.

She doesn’t turn him down when he offers to have her stand at the front with him though. She’s not stupid.

His arm wraps around her waist as he presses a kiss to her forehead and there’s a resounding chorus of “aww’s” heard from the crowd gathered behind them. _That_ is something she’s still trying to get used to. But, as always, his eyes are only for her and, when the makeshift gates open and people flood to grab a book and shake his hand, he still keeps his arm around her.

His editor, Belle, is standing off to the side, smiling as the books fly off the shelves and Emma pulls herself away for just a moment to go and stand away from the storm. The petite brunette waves as Emma approaches, “It’s a whirlwind, huh?”

She nods, turning around to face it all from a distance, “I don’t know how he does it.”

Belle hums her agreement, then turns to pick up a book from behind her, “Killian wanted you to have this.”

She frowns; she’d just assumed she’d buy her copy when the crowd dies down, “What’s this?”

The editor smiles knowingly, “Special edition. One of a kind.”

Not being able to resist at least a peek, she opens the cover, smoothing her hand across the title page and then flicking to the dedication.

In Killian’s tidy scrawl, she finds the words that make her heart beat so fast she’s not sure it will ever slow down.

_“For Liam, my light._

_And for Emma, my love.”_

She runs her hands across the words in wonder. “Is this-?” she starts.

Belle nods, “Typed in every single one.”

But handwritten in hers. Her own personal message. She has to resist hugging the book to her chest like a child with a crush.

It’s later in the day, when the crowds have eased and he’s able to step away for a few minutes, that she approaches him, a kiss pressed against his lips and a question burning in her mind. “When?” she asks, knowing he’ll know what she means. He _always_ knows what she means.

He chuckles, running his fingers through her hair and kissing the tip of her nose, “The morning after our first date.”

She remembers waking up alone in his bed and wondering what possibly have gone wrong in the space of a few hours. When she’d found him cooking breakfast in the kitchen, she’d put her doubts to rest and certainly hadn’t thought to ask if he’d been doing anything like sending a second draft of his book to his editor.

Something clicks together for her then, this little puzzle piece making everything real and sure. Because he’d loved her from the beginning and, despite their relationship having barely started, despite how tentative it all was and still is, he seems to just _know_ that everything is going to be okay for them.

“I’m sorry you had to wake up alone,” he continues, sincerity in his eyes, seeking out forgiveness for something she’d long since forgiven.

Still, she leans into him, cupping his cheek, tracing the scar on his cheek with her thumb, and smiles, “No, it’s okay. It was important.”


End file.
